Whilst the meeting was taking place that brought the Walden Art Colony to ludicrous collapse, Sylvester was on his way to Ayresford to pay one of his periodical Saturday to Monday visits. Matthew, with Dorothy clinging to his finger, met him at the station. Sylvester took the child up in his arms and kissed her, striving hard to respond to her demonstrations of affection. But his heart had turned from her. She was the embodiment of a perpetual pain.

Sylvester's bag being taken in charge by the gardener's boy, the trio walked up to the house, Dorothy skipping between them. The old man looked proudly and lovingly down at her. Sylvester caught the glance from time to time, and a pang queerly like jealousy passed through him. If only he could love the small thing as he had loved her two years ago! But it was impossible. It was a question of blood instinct; she came of an alien race. He passed the house where he had lived with Constance, where Frank Leroux had died after the confession of his miserable secret. To the man's gloomy fancy it appeared a lie in brick. Only when he found himself alone with his father in the familiar library did he put away these imaginings and wear a clearer brow.

“I hope the marriage is as far off as ever,” said Matthew, warming his hands before the fire. Sylvester laughed.

“It seems to be postponed to the Greek Kalends. She won't marry until he takes her to this Colony in the air—and that will be never. The whole thing will die a natural death.”

“I hope so indeed,” replied Matthew, reflectively. “She ought to marry a better man.”

He glanced involuntarily at his son, and their eyes met, and each saw that the other understood the reference.

“I know you wanted me to marry her,” said Sylvester, awkwardly. “I couldn't. I'm sorry.”

Matthew raised his hand, as if about to speak; but the habit of reserve held him back. A word might have unlocked the son's heart, but the word remained unspoken. Sylvester dismissed the subject by saying in a lighter manner,—

“It's none of my business, but I often wonder what Roderick lives on.”

“He is an artist and a literary man. I suppose he sells his wares,” said Matthew.

“Possibly he does. In fact, I suppose he must. I always was under the impression that his father made him a handsome allowance.”

“Usher allows him a few hundreds a year,” said the old man, in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Apparently we are both wrong, then. Usher hasn't allowed him a penny for years. Roderick told me so himself.”

Matthew started in his chair, and his face wore an expression of great anxiety.

“Impossible!” he said almost angrily.

“I only quote Roderick's explicit statement. And I fancy for once in a way he wasn't lying.”

Then he saw his father white and aged, his kind lips quivering, his breath coming fast. In concern he rose, bent over him.

“Why, you 're ill—” he began.

But Matthew pushed him away gently.

“Nonsense, my boy. It's only one of those confounded pains about my heart. There, it's all gone now. Don't worry. It's this hot room. I think I'll go out for a stroll.”

“You had better lie down,” said the physician.

“Yes, and stick out my tongue and chew that thermometer of yours! No, thank you. There!” He rose to his feet, and held himself erect. “I'm as strong as a horse.”

“I don't like your going out,” said Sylvester.

The other looked at his watch. “I must, for a bit,” he said. “Go up and talk to your aunt for an hour before dinner. She's dying to hear all the gossip.”

It was useless to try to restrain him. He had an imperious will to which Sylvester had yielded all his life. So the son went upstairs, and the father put on his overcoat and walked at a brisk pace through the dark December evening to the house of his enemy.

Mr. Usher put down the “Financial News” and rose from his chair as Matthew entered the room.

“My dear friend, how great a surprise! You have come for a reconciliation. It is a Christian thing. I too am a Christian, Matthew.”

“I have come to ask you a question,” said Matthew, ignoring the other's proffered hand. “Roderick denies that he receives any allowance from you. Is that true?”

“I am too poor to make my son an allowance,” replied Usher.

“You know what I mean,” replied Matthew, sternly. “I pay £100 a quarter into your banking account for you to remit, as from yourself, to Roderick. Does he get it?”

Ushers eyes shifted from Matthew's glance. He shuffled a step towards the fireplace before replying.

“You outrage a father's feelings, Matthew. I live for my son. You yourself have a son.”

Matthew strode up to him and laid a hand on his collar.

“Confound it, sir, answer my question! Roderick states that he hasn't received a penny from you for years. Have you kept all these sums back from him? By God! you shall speak.”

Involuntarily he shook him in his angry grasp. Usher was scared.

“No violence, Matthew.”

Matthew released him with a contemptuous exclamation.

“I see by your face you have kept the money. I was a fool to trust you. You're an infernal mean-spirited hound. I've known that for years. But I never thought you would rob your son.”

“He's not your son—At least,” he added with an ugly smile, “I presume not. I have trained him as I have thought judicious. I am a judicious man.”

“You 're a damned thief,” said Matthew. Usher waved his hand towards the door.

“I think you had better go. I do not like to see an old man so carried away by passion. It will shorten your life. I am always calm.” Matthew regarded him for a moment, astounded. Then he spoke in blazing anger: “You show me the door? You? Sit down in that chair at once.” Usher obeyed. “There! I stay in this house as long as I choose. It is mine,—everything in it paid for with my heart's blood. By God, if we were younger men, I should thrash you within an ace of your life! Now then—let me see your passbooks for the last six years. Give them to me at once, I say.”

Instinctively Usher shrank before Matthew's tone of authority. He rose, whimpering allusions to his own poverty and Matthew's domineering ways, and extracted a set of vellum-covered books from a safe in a corner of the room. Matthew threw his hat and stick upon a chair, and sat down, by the round table on which Usher had laid the books. The latter resumed his armchair on the opposite side and watched him furtively as he scanned the pages with practised eye and bent brows. When Matthew was dangerous, he had no power to resist. The craven within him yielded to the stronger personality. But he hated Matthew with a deadlier hatred. Even now, in the moment of his humiliation, there was a gleam in his eyes of a revengeful joy at the imperious man's discovery of the manner in which he had been fooled for years past. He rubbed his palms softly together beneath the level of the table.

There was a dead silence, broken only by the faint rustling of the leaves as Matthew turned them over. At last, when he had looked through the books, he rose and returned his glasses to their little leather case. His face was gray and peaked. There on the table lay incontrovertible proof that his life's atonement had been frustrated, that instead of smoothing Roderick's path, he had merely been pandering to Usher's senile vices. A whole fortune had gone in insane speculations, rotten companies for the exploitation of imaginary mines, futile inventions, wild-cat schemes. Here and there were amounts for £100, £200, paid to names which he recognised as those of great postage-stamp dealers. Not once had a cheque been drawn payable to Roderick. On the credit side were two large sums which he himself had paid to extricate Roderick from special difficulties. On the debit side was nothing to correspond. He felt stricken with sudden age. But he drew himself up haughtily lest Usher should see his despair.

“And you have been lying, I perceive,” said he, “when you have come to me for money to pay Roderick's debts,—or else you haven't paid them.”

“I have paid them all—all his debts—with securities, Matthew. That is why nothing is in my pass-book.”

Matthew shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

“Your word is about as good as your bond,” he said, taking up his hat and stick.

Usher rose and leaned his hands on the table and regarded him reproachfully, wagging his head.

“I could not blacken the character of my only son, Matthew. He has been wild, but I have a parent's love. Why should I give him £400 a year when he did not need it? But when he has come to me in distress, I have relieved his necessities.”

“I have learned all I wanted to know,” said Matthew. “Good-night to you.” And he strode out of the room.

An hour or two later he was sitting alone with Sylvester over their wine, in the comfortable dining-room, as he had done so many, many times before,—and the same silence reigned between them. He lay back in his chair and watched his son, whose face was turned from him in half profile. He wondered what were the thoughts that held him so serious, as he gazed into the fire. It was a man's face, marked with the cares of life, the responsibilities of an anxious profession; proud, reserved, and intellectual. Matthew was immensely proud of him. In this hour of relaxed moral fibre, he was humbly grateful, wondered what pleasure a brilliant man like Sylvester could find in the company of a dull old country lawyer. It was only the love between them. His heart warmed towards his son, and a foolish moisture gathered in his eyes. And then, almost suddenly, came a great longing to tell Sylvester all. He was a physician, accustomed to view the dark places in the human soul. If only he could tell him, share with him the burden he had borne for so many years! It would no longer be a burden. He would face the world at last, a free man. For otherwise what would be the end? He himself was on the verge of ruin. He might spit upon Usher's gaberdine, but Usher's demands must be met. How to meet them and preserve an inheritance for Sylvester? And Roderick? He felt crushed by this evening's revelations. He had struggled as few men have struggled to make atonement. It had been in vain. He had no longer the strength to make fresh effort. A word to Sylvester, and peace would possess his soul.

Sylvester glanced round and saw his father's eyes fixed upon him with a strange yearning. He rose, went up to his chair, and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, with more tenderness than usual in his tone.

“Think well of me when I am gone, Syl,” said the old man. Sylvester grasped his shoulder a little tighter.

“That's a strange thing to ask me,” he said. “You know what I think of you. And for God's sake don't talk of the other matter.”

He moved away and struck a match to relight his cigar, which had gone out during his reverie. Matthew was silent for a few seconds.

“Suppose,” he said at last, “that any one you loved and thought the world of had done you a great wrong and had kept it hidden from you?”

Sylvester started, and his face grew suddenly pale. Did his father know? The old pain returned. He stood staring at the back of his father's chair. The match burned itself out between his fingers. His voice trembled as he spoke.

“There are some sins that are unforgivable. We needn't discuss them.”

It was Matthew's turn to start and look round at his son in anxious surmise.

“You are of course speaking of the matter in the abstract?” he said.

Sylvester struck another match, and spoke between the first few whiffs of his cigar.

“Yes. In the abstract. There is the woman, for instance, who betrays her husband, whose life is a horrible lie. To say to a man 'forgive,' is vain breath. I know men who say they have forgiven. They are almost as contemptible as their wives.”

“You would not forgive, Syl?” said Matthew, gravely.

“By God, no!” said Sylvester.

“You are right, my boy,” said Matthew. “We had better not pursue the subject. Abstract ethics are unprofitable matter for discussion.”

He smiled in his kindly way and settled himself comfortably in his chair. But his heart was twenty-fold heavier than before. He closed his eyes. The memory came vividly of a woman throwing herself on her knees before him, in that very room, several years ago, and pouring out to him the agony of her soul. He had listened, questioned, bidden her go and sin no more. For Sylvester's sake he had counselled silence, secret atonement. It had been unutterable comfort to him that Sylvester's happiness had been untouched. And now, in spite of all, Sylvester knew. Else why should Sylvester have spoken thus of the faithless wife? The vague conjecture that had haunted him for nearly two years shaped itself into certainty. Many things that had been dark in Sylvester's recent life now became clear. But how he must have suffered! None knew better than he. For a while he forgot his own burden. Then suddenly the memory returned. But no longer had he the desire to share it with Sylvester. It was more imperative than ever to keep the secret undivulged. It was no new thing for him to struggle and endure. And the man of iron purpose and pathetic tenderness felt ashamed of his former impulse.

“I'm afraid we've been talking a pack of nonsense, Syl,” he said lightly.

“And we're both old enough to know better,” replied Sylvester, with a laugh. “How did we get on to the subject?”

“I began to croak in an absurd way.”

“And I'm afraid I helped you. I must come down here oftener. That dingy old house of mine is getting on my nerves.”

“Oh, bosh!” said the old man, “you and I don't believe in nerves. We leave that to the feeble folk.”

“Well, I haven't got many, I must confess,” said Sylvester, drawing up his well-knit figure. “And as a matter of fact, except your seediness, I haven't a care in the whole wide world.”

“Neither have I,” returned Matthew, briskly. “And as for my health, I'm as fit as ever I was. Oh, I know I can't live for ever, but I'm good for another ten years at least.”

“You've got to be careful and do what you 're told,” said the physician.

“Let's have another glass of port before we go up to Agatha,” said Matthew, reaching out for the decanter.

Thus father and son tried to throw dust into each other's eyes, so that each should regard the other as the happiest of men.

The servant entered, bearing a tray with the letters that had arrived by the evening post. Matthew glanced at the addresses.

“Will you excuse me?” he said courteously. And Sylvester, trained in a brusquer school of manners, felt a great respect for his father's old-world politeness to a guest. Matthew opened two envelopes and glanced cursorily at their contents. Over the third letter he paused, and his lips twitched as he read. Then without comment he handed it to Sylvester.

It was a long letter from Ella, written that morning. Amid many feminine explanations and ambiguities she announced the fact of the downfall of the Walden Art Colony and her marriage with Roderick in a fortnight's time.

“This upsets all my calculations,” said Sylvester, gravely. “I thought the affair was as good as broken off.”

“It is only natural,” said Matthew.

“Natural! How?”

“The chivalry of woman, Syl.”

Respect kept Sylvester from contradiction, but his lips curled somewhat ironically.

“If a woman won't have a man when he is up, will she rush into his arms when he is down?”

“It often happens, my boy,” replied the old man.

Sylvester took one or two turns about the room. Then he paused by the table and lifted his wine-glass.

“Here's to our friend Roderick's confusion,” said he. “I'm afraid I have been slack in carrying out your wishes, but now I'll use every means in my power to stop the marriage.” Matthew deliberately set down the glass which he happened to be holding in his hand, and remained for a moment in deep thought. Then he spoke.

“I can't drink a toast like that, nor must you. I release you entirely from your promise. I have reason to believe I may have misjudged Roderick, and I have no right to interfere. It is my wish that the marriage should take place.”

This was final. Sylvester made an Englishman's awkward little bow of acquiescence.

“I have no personal feelings in the matter, as you are aware,” said he. “On the other hand, if Roderick should be proved to be—well, as undesirable as you thought, it would be wise to let Ella know, I suppose?”

“I would not have her marry a scamp,” replied Matthew, in a low voice. “It would break my heart. But, O God! Syl, what is a scamp? Which of us dare judge his fellow?” He was feeling utterly weary, and from his prostration came the personal utterance which his ordinary strength rigidly restrained.

Sylvester, unaware of the stirring of great depths, replied coldly, “A man with a clean record behind him, like either of us, is certainly in a position to judge.”

“And pity?”

“Pity generally seems to be an elegant method of condoning those offences which one has in common with the person pitied,” replied Sylvester.

“So that when you are stainless you are pitiless?”

“In the sense of sympathising with evil in any form—yes.”

“Well,” said the old man, throwing himself back in his chair and covering his eyes with his hand, “thank God there's still some sin left in the world to keep it sweet!”